


Lucky Stars

by birdsandivory



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Absentee mother, Bullying, Dark Highschool AU, Drugs and Alcohol Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to ???, M/M, Nyx is a big jerk in this fiction, POV First Person, Physical Abuse, Promnyx, cathartic writing, please, read the tags, this isn't for everyone so, trigger warnings abound, understand that he has a teenager's mentality here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: +++ Prompto can't remember a time when he and his parents acted like a family; he can't even remember a day when he hadn't met the back of his father's hand.+++ Yet, sometimes, he feels lucky - because there are days when no one looks at him, no one talks to him, and no one gives him the time of day.+++ And Nyx Ulric, the love of his life, pulls him behind the Science Building to beat the shit out of him.





	Lucky Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I was not going to post this because I wasn't quite sure about it at all; I have never truly written a thing in first person, I wasn't very confident in the piece as a whole, and I understand how uncomfortable it can make some. I've put my heart into this, definitely, but I was still at odds with it for a while. 
> 
> I had decided for a long time that it was not worth placing in the public eye, so I left it for my Tumblr followers, who are a bit more understanding than most when it comes to my situation. As always, however, lovely friends always play a hand at encouraging me!

_"Paint yourself a picture of what you wish you looked like,_

_Maybe then they just might feel an ounce of your pain._

_Come into focus, step out of the shadows._

_It's a losing battle,_

_There's no need to be ashamed."_

_\- Skin, Sixx AM_

 

* * *

 

Every single day is the same routine.

I get up and wiggle my toes, and it’s probably the most important thing I do all morning, because Pryna’s soft fur at the bottom of my feet feels nice as her head perks up from beneath the heavy blankets. It makes me laugh and it’s the only thing that will until I wake up the next morning; I know this because it’s a fact that has never failed me in the six years that I’ve had her. She’s the greatest thing I’ve ever known, the most special thing I think I will ever have, and when she comes up to lick my face at seven o’clock on the dot — I can let myself be happy for a moment. 

But, like always, I have to let her go; because it’s seven in the morning and she really has to race out into the kitchen and through her doggy door. And what she doesn’t know, what she doesn’t think of — she  _is_  a dog, after all — is that I mourn after her a little bit before tossing the covers and dragging myself from bed.

I’m quick at getting ready, because everything is in one place. I always brush my teeth and gel my hair at the same time, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have remembered to leave my uniform jacket hanging over my desk chair — if only for the fact that I can undress, hit my dresser and redress, pull my tie from the bedside table, slip into my shoes, and then pull that sucker right from my squishy leather seat as I roll down stairs.

Some days it happens and some days it doesn’t. 

On the days that it doesn’t, it takes me a few minutes longer and about half of that time is spent hating myself for not being fast enough, because the door to my parents’ room clicks open just as it hits fifteen past seven. I usually race down stairs and take a hike, but when the smell of coffee permeates from the kitchen, I take slow and careful steps instead; any sound sets off an uncomfortable series of events that foreshadows a shitty day — even if they are usually already shitty.

I don’t even know why I bother trying, though; I am _always_  the show bringer.

My daily dose of parental love comes in the form of my father and his watchful gaze from behind the newspaper he holds at the dining room table before him like a shield, saving him from the son he can’t have the pleasure of beating before he shuffles into homeroom, but he’s always thinking of the moment when I get back — I know by the way he doesn’t bother saying a word to me that he is.

I sweep past him nonchalantly, like I can barely give a fuck, because it makes me feel good; I don’t ever know what his face looks like or if he’s even watching me when I go, but it’s enough to feel like a small victory. 

Pryna’s always at my mother’s side, because she’s always sleeping on the couch, drunk and high and probably several other things I’m not supposed to have learned about yet — and she needs to be watched over. I can’t stand her, even when she holds me and patches up my wounds, promising that we’ll pack up and leave one day like she has since I was eight.

I’m kinda bitter that it’ll never happen.

Still,  _still,_  my day goes on. 

I make my way to school easily enough and sit through classes with people who don’t speak to me and teachers who could barely care if I pass or fail; it’s annoying, but I have to get through it because if I don’t go to college, I’ll never get a decent paying job. Go figure. 

My study hall is boring and lunch is even worse, not because I have no money to buy food, but because I’m an invisible speck in the corner of a huge arena of laughing faces and it makes me sick to my stomach to even be there. But it’s the last stand, the last thing I have to do every day — five days a week — before the bell tolls and I’m free.

And the bell never fails to toll.

My day is far from over at this point, because I have to wait for another important thing to pop up like it does around the same time after school, by the same building since I was first year fresh meat. 

Before I even bother to walk outside the doors, I think about how my life is so fucked, how it doesn’t look any better — even from bright side. There’s so much I can’t do and so much I’m forced to do, there’s liquor and drugs, and hands that hurt instead of hold—

_“What are you looking at?”_

And then, there’s this guy.

His name is Nyx and he’s tall and broad — not to mention wickedly smart beneath such a dumb looking exterior — and he doesn’t waste my time like everyone else seems to, even when he pushes me up against the wall of the Science Building and lands the swiftest punch to my chin. I know it’ll bruise, but it’s always easy enough to cover with makeup, and he’s considerate enough to miss the eyes. 

…I am so in love with him.

He takes the time to look at me funny, like he always does when I smile instead of cry — it never ceases to surprise me and I catch myself staring every time, because _God_ , his eyes are amazing. I’m thankful he pauses between his bouts of anger, as I get the best look at him, being held up a few inches higher than I stand by the fabric of my collar. And I stare;  _I stare and I stare and I stare_ — because he’s not like everyone else.

He understands me.

_“You must like the pain, tch.”_

He never lies to me.

_“You’re so fucking worthless.”_

And he never,  _never_  pretends to like me.

_“I hate you.”_

I love him so much. 

Because sometimes…sometimes, he doesn’t hurt me. 

Sometimes, he sees the bruises my father leaves on my arms and grabs my wrists, and I have to believe there’s concern on his face as he turns them over to trace lines of purple and blue across my skin like they’re freckles. And I have to believe his blood is boiling as he grits his teeth so hard, I can hear them snap. He always looks at them with an expression so out of proportion to who he is that I can’t help but fall head over fucking heels every time.

And when he throws my arm away and steps back, he does it with a growl and nearly yells into my ear.

_“Go to a fucking doctor.”_

I probably shouldn’t think he cares, I’m not allowed to when he acts like he doesn’t — but I know he does.

I think about him from that point on until I reach my house, and I forget my parents are even there until I walk in the door, sighing in relief if they’re in a good mood and watching television as though I hadn’t just creaked open the water damaged plank separating us from the outside world. If it’s one of those decent nights, I let myself think about him while I walk upstairs and into my room that I lock, because making it a prison is the only thing keeping me safe. 

If I feel tired enough, like I usually do, I occupy my time with low music until I know that I should probably take a shower. And then, I do, because it’s better to get beat up by my crush smelling like  _Coconut Mint Drop_  than sweat and my mom’s cigarette smoke. Some days, I feel like the privilege to shower is pampering myself, but then I remember that I’m human and not just the scum of the earth my father claims that I am.

I step out soaking wet and I barely dry off before shoving on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, standing in the doorway and staring at my bed until I hear Pryna scratching and whining at my door. And when I let her in, she’s happy to see me and I remember that what I thought in the morning was a lie; I laugh _twice_  a day and it’s all her. 

I never let go of the chance to lock my door again before I fall into my blankets, and my best girl snuggles up beside me with her nose in the crook of my neck as I look up to the pasted glowing stars on my ceiling as I think of the strands in Nyx’s eyes and how they move like comets when he’s furious. And the countless times he’s never said my name when I wished he did, and how he probably didn’t even know it.

I think about him and the stupid way he does his hair; it looks ridiculous, all the tight and neat braids framing wild, out of place mane. His stubbled chin is just as bad, because he’s all clean shaven until it hits the afternoon and he begins to wear a shadow; he seems so much older, so much cooler than he probably is, but that won’t stop me from agreeing with everyone else who thinks so. 

I close my eyes and picture how he laughs when he makes fun of me, how he huffs and grins when he hits me, how enraged he becomes when he sees that someone else has — and how lately, he’s been hurting me less and less.

I always thought my days would never change, but there is Nyx, and sometimes when I leave the school building — he’s staring at me while he’s with his group of friends, and his eyes flicker to my arms, any patch of skin that’s uncovered. And sometimes, he’s looking me in the eyes and I actually look back, but he doesn’t come over and he doesn’t raise his fist. 

Only his hand as he averts his eyes and waves. 

And then, before I fall asleep, I thank my lucky stars that he exists. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments keep me writing!


End file.
